And despite the swiftness of his incessant chatter, there wasn't a word he uttered without gentle passion and infectious enthusiasm.

He could tend to any wound or malady, as though he had perfectly mastered the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine, and his advice always seemed more effective than any doctor recommendation I obtained. But seven more were just born yesterday, so it's at 2,047,460 now.' Of course, I couldn't verify such a preposterously precise claim, but he was always right about everything else, so I was inclined to believe him. 'Bhutan's current population? Let me see,' he would say, looking up for a moment before launching into his usual light-speed speech, '2,047,453. He was a pipe-smoking almanac, energetically rattling off any fact about the world. He could tell you the corner where the scent of fresh lox and bagels mixed just right with the scent of the neighboring Laundromat he knew the best place to buy your curtains or cut your hair or get your suits dry-cleaned and he knew every phone number you needed, like the yellow pages on two short legs. He wasn't just a handyman who could fix a twitching toilet or stubborn sink he could look at his watch while taking you down in the elevator and accurately estimate the number of minutes before a downpour would start or a cab would show up outside. During my first year at 777 Fifth Avenue, I came to realize that Lenny had never made a false prediction or failed to supply the correct answer to a question, no matter what the subject.

The Doorman by Zack Love